


Breathe

by Eligh



Series: The Survivors [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Nero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I set this in my Survivors 'verse because I think it helps explain Spock's emotions. However, you don't need to read that to understand this.

Spock felt like he could not breathe.

Not literally, perhaps. He could pull oxygen into his lungs in sufficient quantities, there was nothing physically—majorly physically, that is—wrong with him; he was largely uninjured. And Nero was dead, his ship and the death it brought into this universe destroyed and… and vanquished, decimated, vengeance gained, Spock supposed.

Still, he felt as if he was suffocating.

He walked aimlessly down a corridor, away from the bridge and medical and his father and Pike and Kirk. He may have been heading toward what should have been his quarters. Logically, he knew he had been assigned quarters—he was the first officer, after all; he knew they were a reality (unless of course they had been destroyed, but they would be nestled in the belly of the _Enterprise_ and therefore their destruction was unlikely).

He could feel the ship shudder under his feet, limping through space (he had always found the humans’ insistence in calling the ship ‘her’ the epitome of confusion; metal and wires and plastic could not be in any way gender specific) and had a momentary image of a wounded sehlat, one that would need to be put down mercifully… he shook his head.

The corridors were abandoned and Spock’s footsteps echoed hollowly down them. He faltered slightly, slowed, stopped, then reached out a slightly shaking hand to brush his fingertips along the cool metal wall. Dazed, he realized he had come to a stop in front of the first officer’s quarters. Apparently this _was_ where he’d been going.

It took him almost two seconds to remember his unlock code, but he was able to type the numbers in flawlessly. The door swished open seamlessly—it seemed almost like a slight, this tech working perfectly when the rest of the world was so clearly broken. He stepped into the room— _his quarters—_ and let the door slide shut behind him.

“Computer, lights to sixty percent,” he muttered. He’d had enough of bright lights—they reminded him too much of explosions. The lights lowered obligingly and Spock looked around. Of course the room was bare, just the standard bed and dressers. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting, but the stark blankness of this room had not been it.

He looked down at himself, taking in his torn and bloodied clothing. He needed…

With sharp movements, he whipped his shirt over his head and his pants off his hips, almost stumbling over his boots in his haste to strip. His ruined clothes he flung against the wall in the direction of the laundry chute, not bothering to see if his aim was on.

Still seemingly in a daze, he moved toward the tiny bathroom, stopped in front of the fresher. He hovered his hand over the control pad, automatically moving his fingers to select sonics, then on impulse canceled the order. Instead, he rested his head for a moment against the clear partition of the fresher, then without looking typed in the order for a water shower, upped the heat to a level that even he would find painful.

The water kicked on, steam rising immediately, and Spock stepped into the punishing stream. His skin flushed green on contact but he didn’t cringe, just closed his eyes and tilted his head, angling his face directly into the water.

He felt like he was drowning.

Slowly, slowly, he curled in on himself, squatting down in the narrow fresher, now letting the water beat onto his back, wash the dirt and blood away.

He had failed. Yes, he and Kirk and saved the Earth, but it had been Kirk’s plan, and Kirk’s actions, and Kirk who had made the correct choices and he—he had done nothing except fight the wrong fight and make the wrong assumptions and—and—

His mother was dead, his planet was gone. He was, he was—

A sob escaped from somewhere in his chest, utterly unbidden and ruined. He had not cried since he was an infant, but he understood now that he had never experienced grief before this day, had never even come close to this misery. He did not attempt to stop his tears.

He sat, crouched in the shower until it switched itself off automatically—half an hour, if Spock remembered correctly.

“Get up.”

Spock snapped his head up and stared in open shock at the man standing in the doorway. Kirk frowned at him, uncrossing his arms, then plucked a towel from the counter and offered it to him. Spock stood slowly and took it, unsure of what else to do in this situation.

Kirk swallowed. “Dry off. Scotty said we’re turning the heat down to conserve energy until we get picked up. Blowing the warp core hurt this girl a little.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face and disappeared just as quickly. “Don’t want you catching cold.”

“Vulcans do not ‘catch cold.’ I am capable of—”

“Well, cover up,” Kirk interrupted. “Modesty and all that.”

Spock wrapped the towel around his waist, watching as Kirk turned his back on him and walked into his quarters. Following, Spock asked, “How did you gain entry?”

“You of all people are going to ask me how I overrode the lock code on your door,” Kirk said archly. “Really?”

“Perhaps I assumed you would respect my personal boundaries,” Spock snapped. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

Holding up his hands in what Spock recognized as a human gesture of submission, Kirk said, “Please, I don’t want to fight with you. I was… fuck it, I was worried, Spock. You slipped out of medbay before Bones could patch you up.” He took a step closer, peering into Spock’s eyes, and Spock took a mirroring step backwards, disconcerted.

“I am adequate.” Kirk stared at him for a moment, and it took a fair amount of willpower for Spock to meet his gaze. “Please allow me to dress.”

Kirk made a ‘go ahead’ gesture and turned his back. Spock took a breath and opened a closet—of course there was nothing but regulation blacks; there had not been time to stock the appropriate uniforms.

“You okay?” Kirk asked after a moment, and Spock blinked.

“I am—”

“Adequate, I know. You don’t seem—okay, look.” Kirk turned around and advanced on him. Before Spock could even react, Kirk was pushing him to sit down on the bed and then sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Apologies—”

“Yea, no. Apologies are necessary.” Kirk looked down at his hands. “I was horrible to you.” Spock took a breath, listened to the silence that came after that statement.

“Your actions saved the Earth and our lives.” His voice, when it broke through the hum of the air recycling through his quarters, was soft.

Kirk huffed out a pained laugh. “Maybe. I think it was mostly luck. And I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I stranded you.” Spock looked down at the white towel stretched across his legs—this conversation was surreal. He was sitting, nearly naked, in his empty quarters with a man he did not particularly like but who had contributed to saving both who he could of Spock’s people and Spock’s own life—it was—

Kirk nodded. “About that.”

And then Spock listened as Kirk explained about his other self and the cave and the ice monsters and how he met Scotty and what his other self(!) had told him about emotional compromise and a friendship that would last the ages.

“He implied that the world would end if you knew about him, but that doesn’t make sense,” Kirk concluded. “I thought you should know.”

Spock tilted his head, raised his hand slightly off the bed so that Kirk could not misconstrue his meaning. “Would you allow me…?”

A beat of silence, then, “Yea, sure.”

This was inappropriate, Spock concluded as he fit his fingers over Kirk’s psi points. He did not particularly care. He could see the bruises made by his own fingers around Kirk’s neck, the blood Kirk had carelessly—and ineffectually—wiped away at his hairline, his scrapes and his cuts and

_his mind, raw and disjointed as Spock had often imagined a human’s must be. but there were traces of order, an order foreign to this mind but so familiar to Spock. he found the memories easily—his other self had not exaggerated the nature of the emotional transfer. he found the moment of their meeting, the shock and happiness this stranger-not-stranger had felt upon seeing Kirk (Jim) and the rending loss that echoed perfectly within his own mind._

Spock pulled his hand away and looked down. He had pinned Jim to the bed, their bodies flush and pressed together. Those striking blue eyes were staring up at him with shock and a hint of something else that Spock understood but did not want to address at the moment. He stared back for a moment ( _later,_ he thought, and had the fleeting feeling that Jim understood) and rolled away, standing again and crossing to the dresser, where he finally pulled on pants and a shirt.

“Jim,” he said, not looking. “I was cruel to you, and you to me in return. In the interest of moving past these issues and into a cohesive working arrangement, I suggest we, as you humans say, start over.” He turned back to see that Jim had pushed himself up, was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I can do that,” Jim said, and Spock took a deep breath.  


End file.
